


Tattoo

by Butyoucancallmemeg, keepcalmandcareyon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Gen, Tattoo Artist Derek Hale, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butyoucancallmemeg/pseuds/Butyoucancallmemeg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmandcareyon/pseuds/keepcalmandcareyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek was impatient. He was halfway to the back room when Warren told him that the only way to tattoo a werewolf was with fire.<br/>Derek stiffened at the word, froze in his tracks.<br/>Fire.<br/>“Now, I don’ know why you’re gettin’ it, an’ I don’ need you ta tell me. But ya don’ gotta get it. You get a tattoo for yourself. It ain’t for nobody else. Got it, son?”<br/>He didn’t get the tattoo that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derek

Derek worked at a tattoo parlor while he and Laura were in New York.

He had to go to a specialized artist to get the triskele tattooed on his back, a man named Warren Feynman. He was tall and burly, with a graying beard and a hardened face. He took a shine to Derek instantly. Not many people did that anymore.

The first time Derek walked into the shop, Warren had seemed to know he wasn’t human.  His hands were busied with cleaning tools, but he stopped to level Derek with an appraising look from his place on a tall metal stool. Then he stood, wiped ink off his hand and offered it up to shsake.

“Whadda you want, son?” he asked. His voice roughened by cigarette smoke, but his eyes were remarkably kind. He discussed with Derek the pictures, the sizing and the placement, explained the aftercare of a tattoo. Derek was impatient. He was halfway to the back room when Warren told him that the only way to tattoo a werewolf was with fire.

Derek stiffened at the word, froze in his tracks.

Fire.

Warren’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“Nobody’s gon’ get mad atcha if you ‘fraid, son.” He said. Derek didn’t move. Warren stepped around so he was face to face with Derek.

“Siddown,” He commanded, gesturing to the stool he had been sitting on previously. Derek complied.

“Now, I don’ know why you’re gettin’ it, an’ I don’ need you ta tell me. But ya don’ gotta get it. You get a tattoo for yourself. It ain’t for nobody else. Got it, son?”

He nodded.

He didn’t get the tattoo that day.

But he didn’t stay away either. The next time he came, he hovered just inside the door. Warren was leaning over the arm of a slight young woman with red hair, carefully applying ink to her forearm.

He didn’t remember moving, but he found himself sitting on an empty stool, watching from off to the side. Warren ceased his work for a moment to level him with another one of his appraising stares.

“Thought I migh’ be seein’ you again, son,” He said, moving to start working again, “This young lady here’s gettin’ a Dahlia on her arm. A blue one.”

She lifted her head to shoot Derek a brilliant and disarming smile, “My partner’s name is Dahlia,” she informed him happily, “she’s pregnant right now with our first child. We’re not getting married, but I wanted to have something permanent. For me.”

Derek tried to smile back at her, mimic her happiness, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s lovely,” he told her, “Congratulations.”

Warren deflected any further conversation away from Derek, and he was eternally grateful.

When the woman left, Derek asks if Warren can teach him how to tattoo. Warren smiles broadly and tells him to sit down.

The third, fourth and fifth time Derek comes in, he helps Warren around the shop. He learns the basics of drawing up designs for people. For a while he does sketches on the back of old newspapers until Warren hands him a pristine new notebook and points him toward a man with a vine like tattoo already winding its way down his left arm.

The man explained what he wanted, Derek sketched it, Warren took the sketch and Derek watched as his design got etched into a man’s skin.

Derek lost count of the days by the time Warren told him it’s time to turn theory into practice. He knew by now how to handle everything in the shop, from the needles to the old coffee pot.

His first tattoo was done on his own forearm. It said “Cora” in looping script, and it’s gone within the hour. The next one said “Talia”, then it was a wolf, then he was winding a vine from the base of his thumb all the way up to his bicep, where it bloomed into a white lily. He had a baby cousin named Lily. Aunt Jessica had named him her godfather.

Suddenly Derek couldn’t breathe anymore.

Warren took the tattoo gun from his hand with the same care he would use if it were an actual gun.

“Son.” Was all he said, lifting Derek from his seated position onto his feet.

Derek opened his mouth, because the alternative was letting the tears spill over.

“There were seventeen people --”

“You don’ hafta tell me, son.” Warren said, grip tightening on Derek. He shook his head determinedly.

“Seventeen people in my house, and it was lit on fire. None of them survived.” Derek said, squaring his shoulders. He took a deep breath through his nose, then another. He wasn’t going to cry.

Warren used the hand still gripping Derek’s arm to turn him until they were face to face.

“Derek,” his voice was just above a whisper. Derek closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and exhaled loudly.

“I’d like to get that tattoo now.” He informed Warren, his voice wavering.

Warren nodded once.

“Son, you might jus’ be the strongest man I ever met.”

Derek was pulling his shirt back on when the front door chimed someone’s arrival. Warren gave him that look again, appraising but this time it was also proud.

“Go ou’ there and greet your firs’ customer. I’ll be ou’ front in jus’ a minute, son.”Derek furrowed his brow, “My first customer?” He repeated dubiously, “Warren, I don’t have a license.”

Warren then gave the single most judgmental look Derek had ever seen from someone other than Laura.

“Son, is this the face of a man who cares?” He asked flatly. Derek’s face broke into a grin and he headed out to the front room.

****  
  
  



	2. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can make tattoos?” Scott asked incredulously. Derek huffed a sigh.

Scott came to Derek for a tattoo with a solemn sincerity in his voice, but he was careful with his words, as if he was afraid Derek would turn him away.

“Derek,” he said measuredly, standing at the door of the loft with determination on his face, “I want a tattoo.”

Derek shrugged, "Okay." he said casually.

It had hurt, seeing the surprise on Scott’s face at Derek’s easy agreement. Derek had marked up young men who had looked far less responsible than Scott did in that moment. His shoulders were drawn back proudly, and Derek decided that if this was the fruits of his Be a Better Scott McCall Program labor, then Derek could get behind having Scott as a pack member.

“What do you want?” he asked, opening the door to let Scott inside. He stepped into the living room. Derek waited for a response, busying himself with pulling out the necessary inks out of drawers and locating the carefully hidden blowtorch that would be necessary to tattoo a werewolf.

Scott stood in the middle of the living room, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“What are you doing?” He asked. Derek didn’t look up and continued pulling the supplies together.

“You want a tattoo, right?” Derek said rhetorically, “I can’t give you a tattoo if I don’t have the supplies.”

“You can make tattoos?” Scott asked incredulously. Derek huffed a sigh.

“Yes, Scott. I can ‘make tattoos’. I’m a tattoo artist. I have a license and everything.”

Scott stared, mouth agape at Derek as he settled all his tools on the coffee table that Stiles had so graciously bought at a garage sale for ten dollars. He raised his eyebrows at Scott’s still-shocked face.

“Scott,” Derek said loudly, “What do you want?”

The Beta startled, then reached for the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, unfolding it carelessly.

“I want this.” He said firmly. “Around my upper arm.”

Derek looked between Scott and the drawing, blinking owlishly. It was two concentric circles, one slightly thicker than the other. Considering how adamant Scott had been about getting this mark, it was rather plain.

Derek found himself in the rare position of actually wanting to ask why. He had a silent and self-imposed rule that he wouldn’t ask anyone why they wanted their tattoo. It wasn’t his body, he didn’t need to. Often times though, Derek found himself being regaled with tales of lifelong friendships and torrid romances regardless.

Instead he nodded his assent, and gave a brief general explanation of how it would work.

"A blowtorch?" Scott asked when Derek held it up, with a voice full of incredulity, "do you have to do this for every tattoo?"

Derek huffed and rolled his eyes, "Not on the human customers."

Scott blinked, apparently absorbing the news that Derek had given tattoos to werewolves and humans alike.

He remained stone-faced and silent from the moment Derek slid a protective mask over his face to the time he lifted it again.

"The worst of it's over," Derek assured, pressing a bare hand to Scott's forearm and watching as the pain leached away. Scott relaxed visibly. Derek went for the ink next, and Scott watched with interest as Derek worked. He was impressed by Derek's focus and precision.

"Did you know that the word tattoo means 'open wound'?" Scott asked. Derek hummed noncommittal, but listened attentively as Scott went on, "But in Tahitian it means 'to mark something'. This whole experience: Allison, the pack, being a werewolf--it's left a mark on me. it's changed me around and, well, it kinda fucked me up. But I want to have a mark on my outside that matches the mark on the inside."

Derek rolled his eyes. Of course Scott, of all people, would be the person to get a tattoo for the meaning of a tattoo rather than the meaning of what the tattoo is of.

he wiped his hands off on a dishrag, nodding thoughtfully down at his handiwork.

It felt good, leaving this mark on someone. It was an expression of himself in the form of someone else's desires. He'd missed it. He hadn't so much as picked up a _pen_ since Laura died and he'd had to come to Beacon Hills.

He landed a heavy hand on Scott's shoulder.

"You're good to go, Scott."

Scott left the loft with a long backward glance to Derek, who set about putting the supplies away. He had bought it all as soon as he found a place to put it, but since then all it had done was gather dust.

Derek felt like the seal had been broken. He grabbed his sketchpad from one of various drawers, and started to draw.


	3. Elizabeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was sitting in a proper chair, hands gripping the armrest as he finished the second wing when the words finally burst out of her. 
> 
> "My best friend died."

Derek hadn't been working at the shop very long--as a licensed tattoo artist, that is--but as soon as he'd gotten the papers in order, Warren gave him a key to the shop and told him he could work some daytime hours by himself. 

Nobody drunk stumbled in between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon--nobody came in at all until noon at the earliest, but Derek liked spending time at the shop, whether he was designing body mods, organizing the counters, or steadily making his way through the shelved music collection that Warren had tucked into a corner.

This particular morning found him mopping the floor of the back room when the door chimed, signaling someone's arrival.

Derek furrowed his brow, checking the wall clock. He put the mop in the bucket and ensured that it wasn't going to tip over before striding into the front to see who could possibly be wanting a tattoo at ten thirty In the morning. 

It was a teenager, Derek estimated she was about fifteen, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Her red-brown hair had at one point been in a neat bun at the base of her neck, but half of it was hanging out, bobby pins holding on for dear life.

"I'd like to get a tattoo?" she said, voice wavering. It was probably not supposed to be a question. The young woman gripped a sheet of paper in her hands, along with a wad of cash. She was wearing dark capris and a black blouse. 

Derek regarded her for a long moment, face carefully blank. Finally, he gestured her forward wordlessly. 

"Have a seat," he spoke aiming to soften his voice. He wasn't sure it worked, but she approached regardless, sitting on one of the stools and holding the paper in her lap.

"I've got three hundred dollars." she says quickly. He huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a brief exhalation. 

"First you should tell me what you want. then we can worry about what it will cost," he told her, mouth turning up just a bit on one side. She pressed her lips into a thin line and handed him the page wordlessly. 

It was a photo of a butterfly. On a sticky-note at the bottom corner was a name, and two dates. One of them was recent. 

Derek closed his eyes for a long second, before turning back to his underage client.

"Where?" 

She crossed her right leg over her leg and placed her hand on the expanse of skin just above her ankle. 

"There." she said, for the first time, decisively. Derek nodded, heading into the back for his sketchbook. 

He drew the butterfly, taking liberties with the design. He simplified the body and stylized the pattern on the wings. The final product was about three inches wide and just as tall. 

"Cursive?" he asked suddenly, making the girl startle and look up at him. He realized that she had been watching his sketch, and flipped it so she could decide what she thought of it.

"I'd like it to be a little smaller," she admitted, then snapped her gaze up to him like she was afraid he would get angry. 

Derek just nodded amicably, "how big are you thinking?" he asked. She made a circle with her fingers, about two inches across.

"You like the design though?" Derek confirmed. She nodded. He went for the transfer paper next. 

"Cursive." she said after a moment, letting out a big breath alongside the word. Derek leveled a vaguely reassuring look at her.

"Okay."

She was sitting in a proper chair, hands gripping the armrest as he finished the second wing when the words finally burst out of her. 

"My best friend died."

Derek didn't look up from his work. His gloved left hand squeezed her calf for the briefest of moments.

"She didn't die, exactly. She killed herself. Her name was June. She loved days when it rained and she would dance to the music in her headphones no matter where she was. I think she made me a better person." 

Her voice broke. 

Derek carefully removed his left glove and placed his bare palm on the girl's mid-calf. He feels the pain leech out of her and the sorrow hit him like a punch square in the chest. 

It was familiar. It felt like the nights when he had to crawl into bed with Laura because he couldn't spend the night alone.

Derek started in on the dates, making sure they were the proper distance below the looping capitals of 'Francesca June Carson'. 

She smiled victoriously when she saw the end product. It lit up her whole face. 

She stood and her hair was still hanging crazily, there was mascara on her cheeks but she tossed her shoulders back and smiled like she'd won. She looked like Derek's mother and it tugged at his heart. Derek stepped behind her, carefully untangled all the pins from of her hair and set them next to the cash register before handing her a wet wipe. 

"Thank you," her voice was quiet as she carefully removed all the traces of tears from her face. "My name's Elizabeth."

"Derek." he said. "Price comes out to a hundred dollars, even." 

She handed him a stack of twenties that was definitely more than five bills tall.

"Price comes out to a hundred dollars even." he repeated, handing back the extras, "Use the extra to buy some more pants so you can hide that from your parents." He suggested dryly.

Elizabeth gaped at him like a fish for a long moment, then ran around the counter and hugged Derek tightly around the middle. 

Watching Elizabeth leave the parlor with proud shoulders and a smile, Derek was struck by the change he had seen in her. That change had been because of the tattoo. A simple butterfly had lifted a heavy heart, and made a girl stand like a woman.


	4. Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know,” he said, his voice turning quiet and thoughtful, “I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”

“Dude, that is so badass!” Derek froze mid-step as he heard Stiles cry from the living room--the ‘Den’, as Stiles insisted on calling it. His keys were in his hand, but he had yet to open the door.

“I know! You know, he was a tattoo artist? Like a legit one, with a shop and everything!” Derek couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Scott’s easily impressed tone. Sometimes--times like this in particular--Derek regretted giving the pack such blanketed permission into his home. It meant that several times per week he found himself coming home to teenagers invading his space. 

“No fucking way!” Stiles sounded positively enthralled by the prospect.

Derek wanted to walk in there and explain to Stiles that he didn’t ever have a shop, that he just worked at one, that being a tattoo artist wasn’t as badass and cool as they imagined. He should tell them about how much he had to mop. He made to step forward, but then Stiles opened his mouth. 

“You know,” he said, his voice turning quiet and thoughtful, “I’ve always wanted a tattoo.” 

“Of what?” Scott prodded. He seemed to understand that the conversation had shifted, and spoke with a softer, less sharp tone. Derek was continually amazed at how in sync the two boys were, how they moved from high to low together, no hiccups or bumps.

“A swallow,” Stiles said solemnly. “You know, for my mom.”

Derek rested his forehead against the door and sighed. Keys dangling limply from his hand, he turned around and strode back down the hall. He could use some groceries.

When he came back later, Scott had vanished, but Stiles was still there. In Derek’s loft. By himself.

Stiles was lounging casually on the couch--which he had picked out--sprawled in all directions, looking the picture of nonchalance. His eyes followed Derek’s movements with considering focus while Derek puttered around the loft, putting away food and rifling through the mail. He was silent, save for his breathing and the steady beating of his heart. 

It made Derek uncomfortable sometimes, the way he felt about Stiles. He was so opposite to Derek sometimes, and at other times so similar, that Derek found nearly impossible to tell what he was thinking. Stiles was a mystery, a maze he was constantly trying to figure out. Stiles, on the other hand, read Derek like an open book.  
Except for maybe right now.

“I could give you that tattoo,” the words spilled out of his mouth, rushing to put his offer on the table before he had a chance to change his mind.  
Stiles’ eyes widened with surprise and he jolted upright.

“What?” He asked, arms flailing out to catch his balance.

Derek held back the regrettably fond smile that was threatening to break free and cross his face and instead pressed firmly onward.

“I heard what you said to Scott,” He admitted, “and I--” he sighed, “I want you to know, that if you really wanted it, I could do it.”

“Dude, that’s actually kind of creepy, because that my friend was a private conversation, ” Stiles half-laughed, but he was sitting stiffly now, no longer the relaxed sprawl he’d had before. scratching the back of his neck, “And, can I-- can I think about it?”

Derek looked at him incredulously. “No, Stiles, you have to decide right this second. Now or never.”

Stiles looked up, eyes sparkling. “The man’s got jokes!” He laughed, and suddenly the tension was gone.

Stiles left a while later, only after helping put away the rest of Derek’s groceries and carrying a remarkably engaging conversation over pizza rolls.

-

Derek was interrupted from his solitude and his coffee the following morning by a knock on the door. 

“I think my answer is yes,” Stiles blurted out as soon as the door was open. Derek frowned. Stiles was in the annoying habit of just let himself in, making himself right at home on the couch. Today he had knocked.

“Excuse me?” Derek looked at him, hoping Stiles would provide context for his seemingly random outburst.

“I think yes, I want that tattoo now,” Stiles said, watching Derek with uncertainty.

“You think?” Derek repeated, brow drawing down further. Stiles shifted from one foot to the other. 

“Maybe you should sit down,” Derek suggested, ushering Stiles inside.

Stiles followed him, wordless but hardly silent. His heart beat rapidly and his footfalls seemed to echo with the weight of their landing.

“What do you mean, you think?” Derek demanded once Stiles was seated He rubbed a tired hand across his face, “Stiles, I’m not giving you a tattoo if you aren’t absolutely sure.” 

Derek put his hand on Stiles shoulder. He was vibrating with nervous energy, but at Derek’s touch he seemed to relax.

Stiles took a deep breath. “No. I’m not unsure. I want this.” he reached into his backpack, pulling out a folder. “I’m just fucking nervous man.”

He placed the manila folder on the table and opened it up as Derek sat down on the stool next to him.

Inside the folder were dozens upon dozens of papers, all with the same image, a swallow with spread wings. Some were crude, some were intricately detailed. There were big, full-page drawings and little post-it doodles. Some were done with crayon, or marker, or half-dead pens, and all of them were flying away from something. That much was clear.

Stiles released a long breath like he’d been holding it for a very long time. He’s fingers ran over the drawings, and he smiled sadly. He pulled out one drawing, crayon, and wrinkled.

“I’ve known, I think, since before my mom died. That sounds really dumb, because I was nine, but you know how sometimes kids get stuck on drawing something?” He did. His youngest sister, Nora, drew ladybugs over and over. She was always so proud. His room had been covered in red and black spots. He nodded, though he knew Stiles wasn’t waiting for a response.

“Just, over and over again. Birds are always so free, they have no bounds, and my mom, she was stuck in a hospital bed. So I drew one and I brought it to her, and she said it was beautiful, and she smiled so big and bright that I just kept drawing them. Over and over again. I told her once that I wished she was a bird so she could fly away from the sick,” He swallowed hard, “And I guess she did, in the end. Just not in the way I wanted her to.”

Stiles caught his breath in his throat and held it for a moment, before releasing it with a shaky sigh. He pressed his lips together before pushing forward.  
“I haven’t stopped,” He admitted, twisting his fingers in his lap, “Even now. In margins, on tests, on napkins in restaurants. I know it’s what I want. I feel like I need it sometimes, it was--it is such a part of us, of me, that I feel like I need it with me all the time.” 

Derek couldn’t help but stare at Stiles. This kind of open honesty was something that Derek had never seen from Stiles before. It affected him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Derek squeezed his shoulder and grabbed a pencil. On the inside of the folder he began to sketch the swallow.

“My tattoo is for my family,” He supplied, filling the surprisingly easy and natural silence that followed.

Stiles looked up at him, lips pressed tightly together and eyes wide as he tried to stay composed.

“My mom always told me the best things come in threes. That’s why I was so lucky to have three sisters. Alpha, Beta, Omega. Mother, Father, Child. Whenever I was sad, or had had a really bad day, or Laura was especially mean I would lay on my stomach and she would trace the Triskele on my back,” he erased some edges, redefined some lines, gripping the pencil tightly, and trying not to lose his careful control. “She’d remind me how I was loved, how I would never be alone. She’d tell me all the good things that came in threes. Rock, Paper, Scissors. Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner. She’d tell me about the magic that came in a trio. Three pigs, three bears, three billy goats gruff,” He broke off with a chuckle, “She’d sit there with me, tracing spirals on my back ‘til everything felt right with the world.”

He drew the final lines and turned the folder over, showing Stiles the product of his efforts.

Stiles’ eyes locked onto it, and a second later, he was crying silently, shoulders shaking with sorrow that had no place to go. 

Derek slid an arm around him, and Stiles leaned into the touch. They sat there until they both felt they could breathe again.

Stiles looked up at him, eyes puffy and red and smiled brighter and more real than Derek had ever seen it before. “It’s perfect.”

“Let me grab my stuff,” Derek said, sliding off the stool.

When he returned, Stiles was still staring at the sketch, smiling softly.

“Where?” Derek asked simply.


	5. Rita and Margret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen here, short-stop,” one woman said pointing an unsteady finger toward his face, despite the fact that she was at least four inches shorter than he.  
>  “I,” she announced proudly, “am ina- ima- imebriated. My name’s Rita. This is Margret. She’s also inerated.”

Two aging women spilled into the shop, impressively tipsy considering it was mid-afternoon and a Tuesday, making the bell that hung over the door clang loudly. Not that it could be heard over the noise of their giggling chatter. Derek glanced around helplessly for Warren, despite the fact he knew full well the man was on his lunch break.  He was typically the one who had the patience to deal with drunken ones. But Warren was out, and the gray haired women were stumbling toward him.

“Listen here, short-stop,” one woman said pointing an unsteady finger toward his face, despite the fact that she was at least four inches shorter than he. She was skinny, bones stretching her skin. Her hair was short, dark, and curly, sticking out in all directions, “I,” she announced proudly, “am ina- ima- imebriated. My name’s Rita. This is Margret. She’s also inerated.”

Derek assumed she meant inebriated, and was unsurprised by this revelation.

“I know it.” Rita pressed on, “You know it too, don’tcha hot stuff. Not often you get drunk fifty eight year olds who want a tattoo, I bet.”

Her partner in crime--Margret, apparently--was a smaller, softer woman, with hair twisted  into a knot on the top of her head. She swatted Rita on the arm, giggling madly, and pulled out a crumpled, stained napkin out of her giant handbag and slapped it on the counter.

“My girls and I have been through a lot of shit these years and let me tell you: compared to what we done, getting all tatted up seems like going to church. So don’t be trying to turn me away just ‘cause I’m a little bit tipsy.”

It was just three small “I” s, the roman numeral for three, nothing extravagant or special. Derek raised his eyebrows. “This all?” he spoke for the first time.

“You bet, sugar,” Rita winked, “why want anything more?”

Derek’s eyes widened, and instead of answering he began to set up his station.

He bent over, reaching into the bottom cabinet to grab a refill of black ink and when he straightened, both women were staring.

Margret made an impressed noise and turned to Rita, “You don’t see many asses like that anymore.” she said in what she probably thought was a whisper, while giving Derek a side-eye.

Derek flushed. He had thought Margret was the sweet one.

“So,” Derek cleared his throat, “Where do you want this?”

Rita started to unbutton her shirt, and Derek half reached to stop her, thinking she was more wasted than he’d assumed. She slapped her left hand to the top of her right breast, skin bouncing, soft with age. He put his hand down quickly. “Oh, come on sweet cheeks, are we making you uncomfortable?” she grinned shamelessly.

Derek set to work, leaning over Rita as Margret sat on the other side of the chair, holding her hand tightly.

“Jenny would have loved this,” Margret remarked, her voice nostalgic.

“Fuck that,” Rita laughed, “she’s loving it right now. She’s laughing her ass off at all the pain I’m in.”

She looked down at Derek, appraising him.

“You got the face of a man who lost somebody too soon,” she said bluntly.

He tightened his grip on the needle, but said nothing. The three sat in silence for a couple of beats before Margret spoke.

“We know how it feels, too.” she said. Derek looked up, startled to realize she was speaking to him. Margret barreled on, “Used to be there were three of us, an unstoppable trio, getting into trouble even when we were in grade school. Rita used to be the calm one, if you can believe it.”

Rita made a loud shushing sound at Margret. “Don’t go spreading that around, that there is privileged information."

Derek watched the two as they chuckled together.

“We lost Jenny too early. You know how it is. Sometimes your body can’t handle all the life you’ve got. She got spent up too fast. It happens sometimes.”

Derek couldn’t relate. His family didn’t get the chance to waste their lives away.

“She was wonderful,” Margret grinned. “A real firecracker.”

Rita spoke softly for the first time, laughing a little, “Sometimes it feels like she’s still here with us. You know the wind blew our mourning veils away at her funeral? The wind took ‘em all the way across the cemetery, ‘til they caught on a statue of two little girls holding hands. At Margrets wedding, the band played her favorite song, with no one saying to ...” her voice drifted off in thought.

Margret laughed, “At your divorce party when Barry’s favorite neon sign fell off the wall and smashed into a thousand pieces, man! I felt like I could hear her laughing.”

Derek grinned as the women giggled, reminiscing.

The women switched spots, and after he’d finished both tattoos, and all shirts were rebuttoned, Rita patted him on the cheek.

“You oughta find someone to break this shell you’ve got. Your smile’s far too fine to hide”. She winked at him before announcing that this was on Margret as she sashayed out the front door, bell clanging behind her.

Margret rolled her eyes, pulling out her wallet.

She got to the door then turned around and looked him straight in the eye, “I’m sorry for your loss hon, whoever the hell it was. But she’s right you know. Don’t let whatever it is hold you back.”

Derek collapsed into a chair, the fight suddenly gone from him.

The bell bounced against the door, and Derek’s eyes closed, wishing his headache away.


	6. Allison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I…well, what I’m here for is,” she stumbled and stuttered over her words. “I just...Stiles said you can give me a tattoo?”

Derek heard the racing of Allison’s heart at about the same time as he heard the purr of her engine. Stiles had just left, but now Derek was wishing he hadn’t. Very rarely did Allison show up alone, and when she did she was fuming with anger. Today, she was taking shaking breaths, he could hear the pounding of her heart. Sympathy fluttered in his chest, and he frowned, wondering what she was doing here.

He decided to wait for her to approach him, and listened for her knock at the door. Following it, he let her in. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“I…well, what I’m here for is,” she stumbled and stuttered over her words. “I just...Stiles said you can give me a tattoo?”

Derek’s eyes widened. That was the last thing he’d expected. It had been almost seven months since Stiles had shown up at his door for that tattoo--and by extension, since he and Stiles had begun their slow descent into entanglement. Following that day, there was very little that Stiles did not tell him. He could help but question why this was left out of his constant chatter.

Pushing aside his surprise and confusion, he turned into his bedroom, grabbing his sketch pad silently. When he came back Allison was sitting on his couch, looking small, gazing around the room.

She eyed his pad. “Is that a yes?” she asked cautiously.

He grimaced at her. “Do I need to give you the speech?”

She huffed a laugh, “Tattoos are forever. Tattoos hurt like a bitch. Tattoos are forever.” She looked over at him. Seeing the hesitant frown on his face, she set a hand on Derek’s wrist. “I’m sure, Derek,” She said sincerely, “I want this.”

At his silence, her mouth spread into a hopeful grin.

“As long as you don’t tell your dad I did it,” Derek grumped, but he couldn't hold back a smile.

She sighed, “He already knows.” He met her gaze, surprised, but she offered no explanation. That was fine with him. He wasn’t much for small talk, anyways.

“It’s so empty here,” she says, breaking the silence. He looked up from where he was setting up a small workplace, “Without the whole pack to take up space, I mean.”

“It gets quiet,” he admitted with a frown, and finished setting up. He waited a beat before patting the seat across from him.

“What do you want?”

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “A broken arrow,” she tapped the inside of her left arm, “right here.”

He began to sketch an arrow, thin, delicate, and long. 

“It’s for my mom. And for Kate,” he looked up and her eyes locked with his. He tried not to look pained. “And it’s a reminder,” she looked away.

“Of what?” he asked, despite his better judgment. Usually he wouldn’t, but Allison had always intrigued him. She was strong. She never let what she’d been through bring her down. She held her head high. He wished he could say that she reminded him of himself, but that wasn’t true. Allison was better than him. There would never come a time when she didn’t remind him of Laura. 

“That breaking the code always has consequences.” She looked up, apologies written on her face. “I’m sorry if I’ve brought back---you know I’m sorry for all that she p-”

“Stop.” He spoke firmly but without anger. She broke off, tilting her head at him. “Allison,” he said, as softly as he could, trying not to let emotion break through his voice. 

He sighed.

“You aren’t her. You had nothing to do with it. You’re pack, one of mine. Don’t worry about it.”

She smiled softly at him, the emotion touching her eyes, and looked down at the sketch, touching it lightly.

“It’s perfect.”

Derek smiled encouragingly back at her, then set to work.

An hour later she lifted her arm, and mimed pulling back a bow.

“Now it’s impossible for me to forget.” Her fingers feathered it once more before she let Derek wrap it up.

He sank into the armchair as she walked out, giving her a small wave. He felt exhausted. 

Laura would’ve laughed.


	7. Laura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura stood in the doorway shaking droplets of water from her hair. She put a hand on her hip and cocked it, smiling down at him despite his being at least five inches taller. 
> 
> ' Dressed to kill,' Derek thought to himself, 'unfortunately.'

Looking back, Derek finds it very hard to believe he was surprised when she walked in. He probably came back to the apartment every night smelling of stale cigar smoke and the ink that spotted his shoes. That’s not why he should have seen it coming, though; she _was_ Laura.

Anyone who knows her can tell you that’s excuse enough.

Regardless of this, when the bell clanged above the door and Derek looked up to see who it was, he startled and froze mid-swipe of the counter top. Laura stood in the doorway shaking droplets of water from her hair. She put a hand on her hip and cocked it, smiling down at him despite his being at least five inches taller.

She was a sight to see, standing there at the threshold in the semi-darkness of storm clouds and fluorescent lighting, dolled up in bright red lipstick and knee high leather boots. _Dressed to kill_ , Derek thought to himself, _unfortunately_.

It wasn't that she didn't dress like this often--she did. It was the fact that for once the derision on her face had a target that wasn’t street harassment. He didn’t enjoy the sensation of being the reason for disapproval on the purse of her lips. His only comfort was the mirth in her eyes.

She always did love messing with him.

“Der-bear,” She sighed, eyes rolling skyward, “Do you have any idea how many tattoo parlors there are in this city?”

It was a poor question to lead with, because from the perfection of her hair and the fact that it was raining, this was obviously her first and only stop. He tossed the rag in his hand to the side.

“Laura,” he said evenly, but before he could continue, she powered on.

“There’s a lot!” she said, with irritated enthusiasm, “And I, being concerned for your well-being, have visited them _all_.”

This was blatantly untrue, and while they both knew it, Derek said nothing to indicate his disbelief.

“You’ve found me now,” he offered up, half like a question. Derek stepped around the counter to stand in front of her.

Ever since they had gotten to New York, Derek had been careful with Laura. Obviously she wasn’t something fragile or breakable--she was _Laura_ \--but he knew he was the reason they had to come here in the first place. He was the reason that Laura was the Alpha, that Mom and Dad and their brother and sisters were all gone. She said she didn’t blame him, but that didn’t mean that she shouldn’t. The day she realized that though, Derek knew he wouldn’t survive it.

She crossed her arms and pouted, jutting her lip out like a child.

“Der-bear.” It was a talent how she managed to convey both her fond exasperation and her quiet concern with just a word.

Warren poked his head out through the door from the back room.

“Wha’s goin’ on out here?” He looked between Derek and Laura a few times. “If you two’re havin’ some sorta lover’s spat, you’re gon hafta take it outside, a’right there, Hale?”

Laura laughed, “I take it you haven’t told him about me, then?” she says, then smiles widely and adds, “Or about you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, giving Warren his best long-suffering look.

“Warren, this is Laura,” Derek said on a sigh, “Laura, Warren is my boss.”

Warren nodded once in acknowledgement, “I been told ‘bout you, Laura, you’re the big sister. You keepin’ this boy in line?”

This was not a good idea. It wasn’t even Derek’s idea, but he still knew it wasn’t a good one.

Laura grinned saucily at Warren--which was very odd to see, considering Warren is approximately fifty years old and had an impressive gray-blonde beard obscuring the bottom half of his face.

“I do my best, but he’s quite a handful sometimes. You know how boys are,” she winked.

She’d digressed in her mission, whatever it was, to fuck with him a little. Derek knew regardless of the distraction there was going to be a Serious Sibling Conversation™ when they got out of here. At this point, that was the lesser of the two evils.

Warren nodded, taken aback, looking a bit lost. He clears his throat, “I s’pose so, then.”

Derek rolls his eyes crosses the floor to take Laura’s arm.

“We’re just going to go out to lunch, if that’s all right,” he asked.

Warren nodded, adding, “Maybe you’re the one keepin’ this one in line, then,” with a head jerk toward Laura. He was smiling probably, but it was hard to tell from beneath his moustache. Her laugh was clear and bright.

“I think we keep each other sane,” Laura said, bumping Derek fondly with her shoulder. Warren nodded once, accepting this answer though he didn’t fully understand what was happening. Derek could sympathize. Laura was a handful.

“Alrigh’ then,” he said, mollified, “you kids go to lunch.”

Laura turned to Derek and grabbed his arm, “Where are you taking me to lunch, Derbear? Somewhere good I hope!”

Derek led her out of the shop, and before the door banged closed Laura made sure to inform Derek, “You should know you’re paying. You owe me.”

Warren gave a half-hearted wave.

0o0o0

Derek took Laura to his regular lunch spot, and when he waved to the waitress when he walked in, Laura instantly became confused. She smiled and waved back with the pen in her hand before turning to take the order of the bald man who only came in on Thursdays.

They sit down at his favorite table--it’s a booth over to the side where he can see the door and look out the window, and at first that’s where he directs his eyes, over Laura’s shoulder at the pedestrians with umbrellas criss-crossing the sidewalk.

Laura got fed up quickly with this and sighed in exasperation. “Derek,” she began, but then the waitress walked over, a plate in one hand, a cup in the other. She was blonde and small, with pens in her ponytail and a smile on her face. she set both items down in front of Derek.

He smiled genuinely up at her, “Thanks, Anne.” There were teeth in his smile, and Laura gave him a confused face. He ignored her.

“You’re a little early there, hon, I just got on shift. You want a burger?” she pulled a notepad out of her apron and a pen out of her hair, turning to face the table rather than just Derek. Derek nodded, and she wrote something with a flourish.

“And who’s this?”

Laura opened her mouth, but it was Derek’s turn to take charge.

“This is my sister, Laura. She came to visit me at work, so I decided to treat her with the city’s best fries.”

Anne put a hand to her chest, over her heart, “I’ll tell Ricky you said that, maybe he’ll send some with you when you head back to work.”

She turned her gaze once more so it was on Laura only, and raised her brow in a silent question, smile still on her face. Laura took a second to answer, schooling her face into something less bewildered.

“I’ll have what he’s having, if that’s alright?” she managed finally. Anne gave her a friendly smile, nodded and said, “Back in a few!” Then she was off.

Laura splayed both hands on the table.

“Are you sweet on the waitress?” she demanded, voice low, smirk growing. She blinked and ran a hand through her hair, “I can’t believe you have a crush on a girl, this is ridicu--”

“I’m not.” Derek cut her off, a cold edge to his voice. She leaned back in her seat, face clearing. He realized he was angry. Laura just showed up at Warren’s with no warning, and now she’s here, in his diner, with her judgmental eyes on everything. He wanted to have this. And here she was. Derek glared down at his fries.

“Why are you here?” he asked her, looking up suddenly.

Laura sighed, combed through her hair with her fingers again, and looked at him evenly.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. You come home every night without telling me where you’ve been, and you can tell me I’m invading your privacy all you want, but Der, you’re what I’ve got. I’ve got you, and I’ve got me, and that’s it. So if you go off and start doing your own … whatever all the time, then all I have is me. And me isn’t really enough for me right now.”

She pressed her lips together. Derek stared down at his plate,

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?” suddenly her voice was quiet and small. Derek didn’t have the heart to stay angry with her, as she looked forlorn across the table from him.

“I wasn’t pulling away from you,” he began. She raised an eyebrow, so he amended, “--on purpose. Being away from it all-- not you, but all of the - the shit that came with moving here. The reason for it and the aloneness of it - it feels better. The world is less of a big deal from this angle. Sitting at this diner, talking to Anne or Warren, I can handle things. I didn’t tell you because--"

Derek stopped as Anne approached with two more plates.

“Damn, that looks good,” he said instead. Laura watched his shoulders loosen as he looked up at Anne, “wonderful as always, Anne, thank you.”

“I can see why you come here so much, Der.” Laura said softly.

Derek’s eyes slid over to her.

“I think I get it,” she told him, like enlightenment had dawned upon her.

“I don’t want to take over your place, because it’s your safe place, and it’s yours and that’s kind of the point. I don’t want it to be ours. But,” Laura took a breath, filling up her whole chest and blowing it out all at once, “maybe you could try to find a place for me in it?” Derek stared at her for a long moment, digesting.

“Yes,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I can-- we can do that.”

Laura’s shoulders slumped in relief and she grinned, more genuine than she’s been in months.

0o0o0

After that Laura became a fixture. She came to lunch sometimes, sat on the counter and bantered with Warren and Derek while they worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable transition.

Warren made no comments about it, quickly growing accustomed to her quips and remarks. She knew to be quiet and professional when she needed to be, and Warren respected that. 

She had been hanging around for a few months when she walked into the shop with papers in her hands, determination on her features.

“Derek,” She spoke surely, “I want one.”

“One what?” Derek responded innocently. He forced the smirk from his face.

“A pony.” She said matter-of-factly, before smacking him on the arm, “A tattoo, dumbass. what do you think?”

Derek grinned.

“Warren’s gonna need to get the blowtorch,” Derek said, “But if you want to head to the back I can do the sketches now. You know what you want?”

She thrust the paperclipped packet at him, and he turns to exit into the back.

“Don’t think you’re going to scare me out of it with that shit about a blowtorch,” she warned.

Derek stopped in his tracks and turned to face her again.

“Laura, I’m not kidding about the blowtorch.” He used his best professional voice, “If we don’t use a torch, the skin will heal over and the ink will disappear. If you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay. Nobody will think any less of you--”

“You got one, didn’t you?” she asked, cutting off her brother.

Derek nodded, “A triskele, on my shoulder.”

He could see the gears in her brain working, “That doesn’t mean you have to get one too.”

She crossed her arms, steely resolve on her face.

“I want it.”

Derek raised his eyebrows, “You’re sure.”

She laughed. “Yep! Tat me up, Der-bear.”

a few hours later had her the proud recipient of one pawprint tattoo, right at her hipbone, courtesy of her brother.

Derek had never seen Laura quite so proud. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! We'd just like to apologize to everyone for such a long wait. We both hit a block with this chapter, but we are writing once again! It's hard to make to busy schedules in different time zones work, but we just want to thank you for being patient with us, and of course thank you for reading.
> 
> With love,
> 
> Meg and Carey


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